


Four Steps to Being Single

by WingletBlackbird



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: AU, Everlark Fic Exchange 2019, F/M, In-Panem AU, efe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-09 07:09:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18633292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingletBlackbird/pseuds/WingletBlackbird
Summary: Prompt 24: Canon Divergence. Through the years Katniss can’t stop paying attention to Peeta and she’s actually aware of it. When they settle as victors in district 12 or when the time for the victory tour comes (whichever you prefer) she can’t keep herself away from him and the line between friendship and something more becomes blurry until it disappears.





	Four Steps to Being Single

**Step 1: Go For the Impossible**

I couldn’t say when it started, noticing Peeta Mellark. Well, I mean, I know when I first noticed him, as in learned his name. It was after he gave me the bread and risked a beating from his mother to do it.

“Who’s that boy?” I’d asked Madge casually one day. Although I’m not certain I succeeded at casual, since it is not in my nature to inquire about strangers, let alone ones from Town. I tried to cover by saying that I thought my father used to trade with his family.

“Peeta Mellark,” Madge told me. “He’s my cousin’s best friend. He’s quite nice.”

And so he was.

I waited for the other shoe to fall, but it never did. He never in word, gesture, or deed made me feel small. Never, to my knowledge, boasted, bragged about, or mocked my situation to his friends. Never cornered me and asked for favours in return. That was why I first watched him. He sometimes watched me too, and I figured that must’ve been because he was checking up on me, the starving girl he saved. It wounded my pride a bit, and I clung to the resentment like a shield, watching to see if there were anyway to repay him. There really wasn’t, not in scope. Approaching him would probably make things worse if it got back to his mother anyway.

So I watched him then not because I feared his price, but because nothing should hurt this kind boy. I watched him to see what the smallest acts of courage and kindness could wrought. My life saved, my family saved, and through my mother and sisters’ healing hands, who knows how many lives touched? All because of Peeta Mellark. No, I could never repay him. Even now, he gives me hope. When all I see is cruelty, and death, and hard-heartedness, there existed that one person who not only was kind, but resiliently so, even in the face of personal cost. Yes, I watched Peeta Mellark, but when did it go from hope, and gratitude, and fear to….attraction?

I don’t know.

I watched him hanging around with his friends and was glad he had them. Marvelled at his talent as an actor at school plays. Seethed when he was teased for his gifts, for his height. Watched as he excelled in wrestling after his growth spurt. The broadening of his shoulders, and the development of his muscle mass gave me comfort in the fact that he was more able to protect himself now.

I watched him become so popular, you’d never guess he’d ever noticed a girl like me. But he never stopped being gentle or nice. I knew his schedule, observed in gym class that he always double-knotted his shoes, remembered his shifts at the bakery. I was just keeping tabs on him like I should given the debt owed. Right?

And if I ever got upset when girls talked about him, it was only because they were vain, self-centered, and shallow. Peeta Mellark was owed more than that. That’s all. I was like his little protector, because I owed him. No other reason. I really never thought otherwise, never gave much thought to it at all. I can never peg when it started, only the moment of realisation.

It was so simple.

It was a cold winter’s day; I had come a bit too early to trade at the bakery, so Mr. Mellark had invited me to wait inside for a bit, and taken my coat before giving me my bread. Peeta was on the early rotation that morning, and he’d been the one to package it. He’d been the one to escort me out, and he’d been the one who had courteously and gallantly gotten my father’s coat. He hadn’t just helped me slip it on either. (And I was intimately aware of every movement as his arms went around me, and his fingers brushed my shoulder, just so.) Oh, no. That’s not good enough for Peeta Mellark. Peeta took the time to help me button it up, then to roll up the cuffs on the sleeves that were far too long for my bony arms.

“It’s fine. I can do it myself.” I’d bit out, never liking to feel vulnerable, being the center of attention, and Peeta made me feel that way, which is why in spite of myself my tone came out harsher then I’d have liked, especially given who I was talking to.

“It’s alright. I don’t mind.” He’d smiled at me, and it was shy, hesitant, gentle, hopeful, sincere and so blue. My body thrummed like I’d unwittingly placed my hand on the electrified fence. I opened my mouth to make a quick retort about personal space, but my mouth felt dry. I couldn’t focus it, so I bolted out like a crazy person. I was never looking him in the eye again, but I couldn’t shake the feeling. Now that I was aware of it, I was aware of it.

Still, I reasoned, all told, if I must endure this feeling, like all creatures of the wild. Better instead to pine for the boy I can never have, because that way there’s no need for awkward refusals and explanations. No chance of having to deal with it all. I am never getting married, or having kids. As for Peeta Mellark, the popular, golden boy, wrestling champion noticing me? He may as well fall in love with the mud on his boots. Really, I was absolutely safe.

**Step 2: Enforce Boundaries**

“It was all for the Games,” Peeta says. “How you acted.”

“Not all of it,” I say, tightly holding onto my flowers.

“Then how much? No, forget that. I guess the real question is what’s going to be left when we get home?”

I look up, but I don’t really know what to say. The depth of feeling I felt when he almost died, every time he almost died, when they separated us, it’s so deep I’m not sure I can see the bottom. It’s like being afraid of heights. I never dreamed he might feel for me what I did for him. Or rather, I dreamed it upon a rare occasion, but never presumed it would ever, ever be reality. Who could have seen this coming? And was it real? My caring for him might have been, but most every way I acted was for the cameras, and now that they’re gone…

I can’t have kids. I can’t go through that. How much is going to be left when we go home? I don’t know. He can never be more than my friend. He’d move on though. Probably. There are loads of women who’d want Peeta Mellark, victor, many more than would have wanted him before. I would just get in the way.

I look down at the flowers in my hand. The wild onions which remind me of my life before the Reaping, of Gale. He’d hate me being with any Townie. He barely tolerates Madge, and while I’m not inclined to let Gale dictate my friendships, I’m not in the mood to deal with the fallout either. I wish things would go back to the way they were before, simpler, without the blood of children on my hands, before Peeta and I had ever shared a conversation, when it was safer. And maybe that would be better for him too, a clean break. I don’t know how to say this the right way without crushing him. I’m not good with words at the best of times. Peeta is fidgeting and huffing and clearly expecting an answer.

“I don’t know. I–we’ll be neighbours. We’ll see each other. I don’t–”

“It’s fine.” He cuts in abruptly raising his palm towards me in a gesture to stop. “It’s fine. I should’ve seen this coming. It’s fine. I’ll just…stay away. Won’t mess things up for you.”

“Peeta, wait!” I call out, but he’s marching off to the train, his shoulders are so tense they remind me of rocks. I drop the flowers to the ground and collapse. Mid-sob I realise I don’t want to be caught crying out here, so I head straight to my room and lock it where I lie on the bed. I cry until I sleep. You’re not supposed to feel loss for people who are alive.

Peeta and I don’t talk again for weeks.

I miss him. I try to go through the motions of being who I used to be. The girl who hunts in the woods with her friend, Gale. It doesn’t work though, because that Katniss doesn’t know what it feels like to be in the games, to be the prey, to be on the receiving end of Peeta Mellark’s affection. Even when I’m not having nightmares, I dream of him. I hunt. I come home. I see his house, and I worry. I yearn, and it scares me so much I rush back inside and try not to think about it.

As time goes by, I know this isn’t feasible. There’s the Victory Tour, and mentoring, and Peeta and I will always be neighbours. His words, I’ll stay away, echo through my ears, and I know I have to find the courage to talk to him, because I don’t want that. I never wanted that. I hadn’t told him that. We’re going to have to work together anyway, get along. So I storm across to his front door, and in my determination knock far more harshly than I likely should. I’m scared I’ll lose my nerve.

“Katniss?” I have clearly woken him up. He’s been sleeping even though it’s almost noon.

“Did I wake you?” It’s a stupid question given he’s bleary-eyed, and his hair is sticking up every angle, and his shirt is all rumpled, but it’s supposed to be polite, isn’t it? And I’m no good at this stuff.

“Um, yeah.” His voice sounds hoarse from sleep and he blinks a few times to orient himself. “Why don’t you come in?”

I nod, and brace myself to enter, preparing for what, I’m not even sure. His house is much like ours, but his colour scheme is different. It’s clear he hasn’t done much with the place. Hasn’t tried to personalise it. He lives here, but it doesn’t look like he considers it home.

“Is there anything, you’d like to drink? Eat?”

“No, it’s fine. I just wanted to talk.”

He sighs, and looks resigned to misery. Frankly I feel a touch annoyed at his melodrama, but I follow him into the living room and sit on the sofa across from him.

There is an awkward silence. If I ever had a biography written about me, it ought to be called just that. Unless I’m in the woods. Silence is a language in the woods, and I’m a native speaker. Peeta isn’t making it easy either.  He’s leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees, watching me intently. I feel pinned. Clearly I am required to start this conversation.

“I don’t want you to think I want you to stay away from me.” He looks nonplussed. So I clarify, as I grip and ungrip my hands in lieu of biting my nails. I am stiff as a board on this stupid sofa. “You said that at the train stop, that you’d stay away. I don’t want that.”

“You don’t?” He asks tentatively and his head rises just slightly. I can see hope glow in his eyes, but it’s so fragile a baby’s breath could puff it out.

“No. I mean, we have to work together, and I–”

He huffs, interrupting me, and leans back against the sofa, shaking his head. He looks put out.

“Look, Katniss, if this is about the Tour, or the Games, or the cameras. I won’t let you down, but I’m not…just…” He waves his hands erratically in frustration. “Don’t lie. Don’t say you want me around when you don’t.”

  
“I’m not!” I shout. I am incensed he would think that of me, and I’ve had more than enough of his self-pity. “I never said that. Why would you think that? Look, I’m not getting married, okay? I’m not having kids. It’s nothing to do with you.” I cross my arms and my legs petulantly. I am mad. He should know it. Idiot. “I decided that years ago, so you can stop acting like a kicked puppy, because it’s really getting annoying.” My tirade slows as I see poor, Peeta’s jaw hanging open. “Look, I don’t want to hurt you, but I can only be your neighbour, okay? I’m pretty sure that’s what I said in the first place. It’s nothing personal.”   

Peeta nods slowly, like he’s absorbing it all. Finally, he apologises.

“I’m sorry. I…I just thought you were doing what you had to do, and I’m grateful you were looking out for me too, but I didn’t think that meant you wanted to be around me. Why would you? And I thought Gale might be upset. And–”

“He is. He doesn’t like people from Town, but it’s not like that anyway. I told you. No marriage. No kids. Gale knows how I feel.” I shrug. “Now you do too.” I look away, because I can’t make eye contact with him, and I don’t know what to say. I almost feel like I’m lying. Fortunately, Peeta has never been troubled by such things.

“Well,” he says wryly after he collects his thoughts, “what’s your favourite colour?”

We grin.

**Step 3: Maintain Boundaries**

Having Peeta’s friendship makes things easier, so much easier. I don’t have to hide from him, or explain things. Mom and Prim understand the flashbacks, and the nightmares, but I don’t want to talk to them. Prim is so young, and with Mom…it’s just hard. I don’t want to add to her burdens. Gale would rather pretend nothing happened, yet somehow still seethes. Peeta though, he was there. He knows me. He goes through it with me. When I jump at loud noises, he quips a one-liner with an empathetic look in his eyes. I am still Katniss, just extra jumpy. He has an entirely different approach to handling nightmares though. He paints. I don’t know how he can stand it. I try to avoid that part of my life entirely the way you jerk your hand off of a hot oven. Peeta feels he has to remember it though.

“It helps to realise that it’s just a nightmare,” he explains. “When I paint it. I have control over it, distance.”

“But you still have nightmares.”

“Yes, but it happened. I don’t know if I want to forget what happened there.” He glances at me out of the corner of his eye as we examine his work. “Should Rue be forgotten?”

Tears fill my eyes, and I want to glare at him, but I can’t. I let him wrap his arms around me, and I press my face against his warm, strong chest, and the tears flow. I do nothing to stop his affection. He rests his cheek against the top of my head.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I just want to find some meaning in it.

“There isn’t. One man’s power trip. Capitol cruelty.” It’s risky saying it, but I don’t care.

“I know, but…I survived, and I can’t get past that I am alive, because so many aren’t. Good people. Children like Rue. I need to…acknowledge that. Live somehow in a way that doesn’t dishonour that.” He’s choking up now too, and I hug him tighter. We stay like that for a very long time, until our arms hurt, and it’s hard to stand. Then we sit, and stay wrapped up for even longer. I feel safe.

It doesn’t entirely stop the nightmares, but sharing with Peeta does decrease their severity and frequency. At least when I wake up, it can be easier. I am up every morning to check on the snare line for Gale, and when I return, I help Peeta with his bread routes. Peeta bakes where I hunt. He takes cat naps while the dough is rising, or the bread is in the oven. True to his desire to make his survival mean something, he delivers the bread to the Community Home, and leaves other loaves in the trash bins in Town where he knows starving Seam children will find him. When he first brought me with him I wanted to lean up and whisper in his ear that I thought he was amazing, that I desired him too. But I don’t. I can’t.

Instead I tell him he has inspired me. It’s true. I decide my so-called talent will be gardening and botany. It’s just a cover so I can plant berry bushes, and fruit trees, and vegetables inside the fence. Maybe, it’s not much, but I know what a difference even two loaves of bread can make between life and death. I think of Rue in the plants, how she wanted me to win. Peeta’s right. This makes me feel like, somewhere, she’s smiling.

That’s the only downside to being with Peeta really. He does something seemingly small, and I almost combust. It’s the yearning, the want to run my fingers through his hair, to hold his hands, to caress his jaw, to sit on his lap, to kiss him until I can’t feel my lips. I never do, and it takes more discipline than I expect, since I know he would welcome my attentions. I guess I am the Girl on Fire. I spend a lot of time gazing at him when I know he isn’t looking. When he’s painting is an excellent time. Peeta gets so focused, still, hinting at entire worlds locked away inside him. His hands are gentle, but precise, as he places each stroke of the brush. I pretend to read in the corner, but more often than not, I just watch him, bask in him, the knowledge he is alive, safe, for now.

Sometimes I fall asleep in that corner, and Peeta will pick me up, carry me to bed, and carefully tuck me in. One time, I groggily grasp his hand and ask him to stay. So he does. He crawls into the bed alongside me and I nuzzle into his chest as he wraps his arms around me and I drift off dreaming of warmth and sunshine.

It starts a pattern. I join Peeta in his morning catnaps, and I like it so much, I take to dragging blankets down and creating a nest in front of the fireplace during mid-afternoon, when everyone, insomniac or otherwise, gets sleepy. Maybe it’s just an excuse, but I’ll make any I can to spend more time in Peeta’s arms. Sometimes, more often than not, if I wake before him, I run my fingers through his curls, or down his cheek. I kiss his forehead, and eyes, and nose, and cheeks, and sometimes even his lips. He sleeps like a log so he never notices. I doubt he’d mind though, so I keep doing it, because when affection bubbles up inside me, this is the best way I can think of to handle it. That, and fussing over him, or bringing him meat. I’m not good with words, so I just do stuff and hope people understand. Prim used to tease I was like Buttercup bringing in trophies of dead mice for his loved ones. I resent the comparison, probably because it’s accurate. Peeta and I call each other every night, especially when the nightmares are bad. Often I slip over just to be sure he’s still breathing.

We never have to worry about anyone interrupting us. Sometimes Peeta visits his family in Town. Even more rarely, his father, and occasionally one of his brothers will drop by. They aren’t a close family. Peeta confesses his mother pitched a fit at the idea of living so close to the Everdeens, then said it was too far from the bakery, and didn’t look good, or whatever. The truth is she’s a witch. When Peeta says it’s just as well, they never got on anyway, the woebegone look in his eyes makes me wrap my arms around him, and I do kiss him on the cheek. I rest my head on his shoulder. It’s not right the way they treat him. I don’t understand it. I never even wanted to love anyone, and I couldn’t help myself. Worse still, I feel bad for being so hard on him when he stopped talking to me for awhile, because I can understand now why he leapt to all the wrong conclusions. If your family rejects you, I suppose you come to expect it. It hurts my heart. I want to wrap him up in cotton wool and place him on a really high shelf where nothing will ever wound him again. I feel like a dragoness who hisses and spits at anyone who would dare try to steal her gold hidden deep in a cave, except it is not gold I guard, but my golden boy, the sunshine boy, the boy with the bread. Hiss. My sweet boy. I really am very feral.

“We can be your family.” I whisper into his ear one day as we are lying together, and it is worth every bit of anxiety I feel to see the lazy grin spread across his face.

“I’d like that.”

Mom and Prim are healers at heart. They take Peeta in like he’s a wounded puppy.

It’s ironically the best summer of my life. I don’t worry about food, or warmth, or winter. I go on picnics. I swim in the lake. I teach Peeta to swim, (which is playing with that fire, but I regret nothing.) I stargaze. I curl up like a cat, and stretch when I get up. The only struggle is Gale. I wish it wasn’t so, because he has been my support for years, but I find I have to hide most of my life from him. He resents me living in Victor’s Village, I think. He despises hearing about Peeta. He won’t talk about the mines, which I don’t suppose I can blame him for, but that only leaves the woods and his family to talk about. Since Hazelle keeps me informed about that, it’s really just the woods. It wouldn’t be an issue, the woods have always been ours, except his bitterness spills out over sometimes. His eyes flash, and his jaw tenses. The air feels sharp and dangerous. I can’t abandon him though, and I cannot even fathom how awful it must feel to be so trapped. I garner the impression he feels cheated out of something. I do what I can to lift his spirits, have him enjoy his one day above ground. We find our new routine, But the last Sunday before the train comes he presses a kiss on me.

“I had to do that. Just once.” He says before storming away. I don’t know what to make of it. I stand stupefied for awhile, never having really considered that it could be a future with me he feels so cheated of. It would never have happened anyway. I don’t dare tell him that.

To add insult to injury, I am forced to talk with President Snow.

**Step Four: Throw Your Hands up in Despair**

“Was that really the only time you kissed Gale?”

My eyes widen that he’s even asking me. “Yes!”

“Sorry, sorry.” He’s quick to reassure me which hurts in so many other ways. “I just…you said he knew how you felt about kids, marriage, so…”

“He was just being an ass.” I reassure him and rub my hand across his shoulders. We are both sitting on his bed after the travesty that was our encounter with District Eleven. I wrap my arms around him from behind and rest my cheek on his shoulder.

“Thanks for standing in front of that Peacekeeper. It was really brave.” I can feel the tension drain out of him, and can practically hear his proud smirk. I swear. Men. But if it makes him feel better I don’t complain. Instead, I turn his head to face me and kiss him softly on the lips.

“To make you even,” I explain with an uncharacteristic wink, and I am gratified to hear Peeta laugh. We go to sleep not long after that. There’s no question that he stays with me.

It really is remarkable how bad I am at convincing anyone that I am in love with Peeta, especially given that it’s true. I suppose it’s the nature of the camera. It can’t show the little things I do. And I’m not prone to grand gestures in front of audiences. I can’t make it look real. I’m supposed to speak my love, but if I did, it would probably come out all wrong with smatterings of “but Dandelions, and Spring, and sunshine, don’t you see?” But that’s for me not them, and I cannot bring myself to part with it. It makes me too vulnerable to share the story about the bread either. It occurs to me Peeta has a courage, a strength I don’t. He told the truth to Caesar in our Tribute interviews, and he turned his vulnerability into a honed weapon. I am a survivor in my own fashion, but I don’t know how to do that.  

Kissing Peeta and pretending I don’t want more is a chore too, and only complicates an already sticky matter. Well, when it’s in front of the cameras, I generally don’t want more, but when we sneak off to get caught on them, it’s another matter. It’s hard not to get too into it, and I wonder how in the world I’m supposed to do this for the rest of my life, assuming Snow doesn’t kill us all? How am I supposed to kiss Peeta on camera, and then go home, and keep my hands to myself? Being around Peeta is nothing short of deadly.

So when we come to the Capitol, reasonably sure we’ve failed, I throw it out-

“We could get married.”

Peeta agrees and then leaves as quickly as he can. I make to follow, but Haymitch says I ought to leave him alone. He gives me a stare that proves he thinks I am some kind of surly, heartless creature. Maybe he has a point, because if Peeta wants this to be real…well it’s not like I hate him, but I’ve never clued him in. So I glare back at Haymitch, and I do follow him, because Peeta suffers enough insecurity without him thinking he’s going to marry me and I don’t want him. It’s just that I don’t want to be hurt; I don’t want my kids to hurt.

Peeta surprises me. He goes into the bathroom when I arrive and turns on all the faucets.

“I want to talk to you about something.” He speaks as quietly as he can. I know he must be trying to avoid having our conversation overheard, so I join him as he sits down by the bathtub where the shower is rushing. “I know you said you didn’t want marriage and kids, because of the Reaping…but, I guess that’s unavoidable now. So…I just…” He trails off, and looks uncertain. It’s rare Peeta can’t express himself, so I gather this is something that cuts very deep to his heart. I don’t dare interrupt him. “My parents’ marriage was arranged. Lots of marriages in Town are, and they hate each other. I always swore, I’d rather go to the Seam then live my parent’s life–not that I think you’re like my mother!–” he hastens to clarify when he sees the look on my face, “but a loveless marriage by two people who feel they have to do it, and end up resenting each other, and kids who are born for necessity and not love. And…” He shakes his head. A grimace is etched on his face. “We have to get married. There’s no avoiding that, and if they make us have kids, which they eventually will… then…they don’t have to be mine.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, that this doesn’t have to be a real marriage. If it’s forced, it can’t count. Like, if you fall in love with someone else, you can have his kids. I get you never planned on it, but you should at least get a choice in the who. We can pretend they’re mine for the cameras. But…behind the scenes…”

“Peeta, that’s insanity.”

“I’m just saying,” he stresses, raising his voice slightly, and he lifts his hand up and down in emphasis like he’d be slapping a table if we weren’t sitting on cold tile, “it’s a possibility. If you don’t want it to be me then…just say so. You won’t be doing me any favours pretending. I have enough of that in my life. Can you love me, Katniss? Do you?” His voice cracks a little.

“Peeta–” He doesn’t let me get a word in edgewise. He’s lost in his own fears.

“But then there’s the fact that it’s practically a guarantee our kids will get Reaped. Heck,” he laughs bitterly, “maybe more than one. I dunno, Katniss, maybe I should just right the imbalance now.” He looks somberly at me. His blues eyes are as dark as I’ve ever seen them. “There’s only meant to be one victor.”

“No!” I shout and then drop my voice when I remember we’re supposed to be being discreet. “No! Peeta, if I was ever okay with that, I would have let you die in the arena,” I hiss. “How could you even suggest it?” I choke as I feel sobs rise up in my throat. “You don’t even know for sure, they’ll Reap them! And, I mean, it’ll be someone’s kid…and I just…” I’m not even making sense, Peeta’s words have catapulted me down a dark tunnel where little girls are abandoned when their father’s die. I cling to him and shake. Peeta looks guilty, as he wraps me up in his arms.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“Then don’t ever, ever suggest that again! Don’t even consider it.” My crying is ugly, and I wipe my nose into his shirt and don’t even care.

“Alright, I won’t, but you know as well as I do, our kids will have an increased risk of being Reaped. It’s basically guaranteed. I can’t just sit idly by while that happens. What if they Reap all our kids? I just…I know we have to try and subdue the districts or Snow will kill us all, but afterwards, I think we need to try something. We’ll have at least twelve years after our first child is born to  prepare them, but I’d far rather prefer there be no Games at all. We’ll be coming to the Capitol every year now, maybe we can learn more about their weaknesses, scout out the other victors for sentiment in their districts. I don’t know. I just can’t take this lying down Katniss. I can’t. I won’t be someone who does nothing at all when someone tries to hurt their child. I can’t.”

I pull out of his arms so I can see his face. I run a soothing hand across his forehead where his hair waves; it helps to ground me as well. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him so desperate which is really saying a lot. I can understand why this issue devastates him. It devastates me too, albeit from a different childhood trauma. I curl into him again. Any direction I go scares me, but I’d rather hold onto him in the storm. I can’t hold this from him when he so needs to hear it.

“I agree, but Peeta, it was always you. I decided ages ago I couldn’t marry if only because of the Games, although I’m scared of losing you too. It was always you, okay?”

“What?” He seems so genuinely confused I don’t know whether to slap him or his mother.

“I mean, that I knew who you were when you were Reaped, and I’d been watching you for ages too. I mean, marriage wouldn’t be my first choice, but I do….I do love you.” I twist my head up to see him better. There is dawning comprehension on his face as his eyes widen and his cheeks lift.

“You mean that?”

“Yes, obviously.” I don’t like that he is dragging this out, so I sit up to kiss him.

He gets the picture.


End file.
